I'm a father, and I can't think of a more harrowing experience than what happened to John and Josh Sonsteng on Oct. 4.

Father and son were diving for the first time since earning their certification. They planned to get some experience before entering an underwater pumpkin-carving contest before Halloween. His dad wanted to do that, Josh said.

They had tried to go diving the week before, but they had the wrong masks and not enough weights to help them sink, so they'd given up. Going home, John joked to his 19-year-old son, “Hey, we're both still alive.”

They went again the next week.

It was a beautiful, clear morning, Josh recalled recently in his first interview since the dive. John seemed particularly happy. His favorite song, “Don't Stop Believin' ” by Journey, came on the radio as they drove from their Poway home, and he sang along.

Hitting La Jolla Shores around 7 a.m., they put on their gear. John told his son to stick by him, saying, “Stay to my left.” And they plunged into the chilly Pacific. They had enough oxygen for a 45-minute dive.

As they set out, John was loving the exploring, pointing out sea life to Josh in the clear water. But a 60-foot dive is about the limit for novices like them, and John was going deeper, much deeper . . . .

Josh thought they were pushing it. He was thinking of his air supply, but he kept by his father's side.

Because fathers know best. That's what sons are told. That's how sons are raised. It's how I was.

So of course Josh followed.

I would have.

It was his dad's idea to learn to dive. The year before, the whole Sonsteng family had trained. John thought it would be a fun way to bond with his wife, Debbie, daughter, Jodi, and son. But Debbie and Jodi didn't want to go diving that day.

So it was father and son.

It could have been one of those sweet experiences they would look back on and smile.

Debbie was worried, though. She described her husband, a 45-year-old accountant, as something of a risk-taker.

The night before the dive, he had boasted to her that he was going to go down to 130 feet even though he was certified to go less than half that.

John went 20 feet farther than his goal, and Josh went with him. He kept his breathing slow and steady, as trained. Still, he worried. At that depth, when you breathe from tanks, one can get giddy, drunklike.

Down far below now, his dad abruptly made a move upward. Josh figures it was then his dad realized his air supply was almost empty. A panicked thought came to the teen's mind: He's leaving me, and I'm going to die.

Josh rushed after him. The two began to kick toward the surface, face to face now. John reached for Josh's secondary regulator – a device attached to the tank for emergencies – to get air from his son.

Josh reached for his dad's secondary regulator as well, to help with his own breathing, but he got mostly water.

He switched back to his main breathing device, glanced at his gauge and saw it was near empty.

And then Josh, caught in that moment of dread, reacted.

He pushed his dad down and away from him. During our talk in his living room, he thrust his arm out in a re-creation. It was involuntary, he said, a reflex born of panic.

He looked at his dad's face.

“I saw the terror in his eyes.”

And then John Sonsteng was gone.

As he drifted away, his son, now alone in the water, figured he was doomed. Josh was still down 60 or 70 feet. He used the little bit of air left in his tank to inflate his wet suit, for buoyancy.

And he kicked hard.

Here, Josh doesn't remember much. He thinks he screamed and yelled as he fought to the surface. He has no idea how long he struggled – maybe two minutes, maybe a little more.